If you dug the style of Caniba but had moral issues with it (fair enough!) then this might be an alternate entry point into Castaing-Taylor & Paravel's ruminations on the uninhabitable realms of the everyday world. So much so that all the talk of midget towns, self-fulfilling autopsies and the rapist elderly sounds almost agreeable, provided one were able to attune to the alien wavelength it's broadcasting from. Yet it almost feels contradictory - the dreamer lies in an unapproachable state but the surreal stream-of-consciousness is spoken with such confident logic. The unknowing sway of the body and its unfiltered hypnobabble is exploited by a deeply voyeuristic POV, a lens salivating with such a curious thirst that the skin and body hair swirls into an incomprehensible soft-focus sludge. The album, aptly entitled The Dream World Of Dion McGregor (He Talks In His Sleep), is a masterpiece of inadvertent surrealism. A vital captor, where submitting is to allow oneself a vulnerable stasis bound in unconsciousness. N 1964, TEN of the tape-recorded dreams of Dion McGregor were pressed into a record album and released by Decca Records, then one of the largest music companies in the world. Production companies: Norte Productions, S.E.L." You see, you're not even safe in an ambulance these days"ĭeeply unnerving in its portrayal of sleep. Dangerfield.” There’s enough dissonance that the dream world and real world of somniloquies forever remain separate realms, although the film ultimately goes very far - perhaps farther than most movies – to try and bridge the gap between the two. What we’re seeing and what we’re hearing never quite match, as the camera constantly roves over blurred bodies while McGregor says stuff like: “I don’t want to see your ass, Mrs. There’s something vaguely Lynchian about getting into a person’s head like that, and the array of abstract imagery recalls late Lynch movies like Inland Empire, as well as the films of Philippe Grandrieux (especially the recent Despite the Night) and the paintings of Francis Bacon. And in several sitcom-esque sexcapades, he refers to the “platinum bush” of an older woman in a robe, a calendar whose days include “suck Monday” and “tit Tuesday,” and to a vehicle that he calls the “f- wagon.” In another he performs a surgical procedure on himself, removing his own spleen. McGregor’s rants are like a cross between the somnambulist poems of Robert Desnos and the standup of Lenny Bruce, and you can see why his roommate wanted to record them: In one dream he describes a “midget city” in hilarious detail. As ominous as that sounds, the dreams are so amusingly surreal that somniloquies winds up turning into a sort of avant-garde comedy. Explore the tracklist, credits, statistics, and more for The Dream World Of Dion McGregor (He Talks In His Sleep) by Dion McGregor.
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